Grief is such a funny thing.
Even when you think you are over something, that enough time has passed, the sadness hits random and inconvenient. And personally, I find that when I am mourning something in particular, I can’t help but to think of all the other tragedies. It compounds and I wallow.
I happen upon a picture of my darling dog that I lost last August and I miss his fur and his smell and his kisses and how Enzo is just not the same. I think about my grandma, whom I lost three years ago, and how I will never hear her laugh or how she will never pinch my daughter’s cheeks. I go to a photo album called “Paris” and remember how much fun I had with my best friend being obnoxious tourists nine years ago. She decided to stop talking to me because I wanted to have a baby. It’s a different kind of grief.
Just a few weeks ago there was another death in my family. I wasn’t particularly close to this person, and he wasn’t blood, but he might as well have been. I had known him my entire life. I am upset but I am more upset at how this is affecting my dad. I’ve been struck with a kind of melancholy thoughtfulness.
Don’t let anyone tell you that you are mourning too long. Don’t let anyone tell you are mourning in the wrong way. It isn’t their pain and it’s none of their business.